A Vision In The Temple…Luke 1:22
Julia Barrister locked her car and hefted the stack of papers she was carrying under one arm as she walked briskly towards the door of the gallery. The early morning sunlight sloped down through the buildings as she fumbled for her keys in her Coach attaché. She stopped short when she saw the man standing in front of the door.
It was probably because his back was toward her that she recognized him, if one can be said to recognize someone they’ve never seen. He was standing, leaning against a lamppost, his head slightly down, and it was exactly the pose in one of the three canvases she still had in the storeroom upstairs, the ones her client had refused to show. She hurried even more and her heel caught on a cobblestone as she came up to him; he turned and caught her arms to keep her from falling.
“Oh—thanks.” The man was tall, unshaven, and looked like he hadn’t slept in a week; he was dressed in worn jeans and a battered leather jacket. If she hadn’t been so certain that she knew who he was, she might have been alarmed by his appearance. But he set her on her feet gently and then let go of her. “Are you—were you waiting to get into the gallery?”
“Yeah. Says it doesn’t open till eleven.” His eyes were the most intense she thought she’d ever seen.
“It doesn’t, officially, but I’m the manager and I’m on my way in. Would you like to come up now?”
Those hooded eyes turned slightly suspicious. “Why would you do that?” He was obviously used to being distrusted, especially by women like her, and if she hadn’t seen Marie’s work, she might have felt frightened by the barely-leashed tension and raw power he radiated. She hesitated before answering. Something about him touched her deeply. She put a hand on his arm, feeling as though she was reaching out to a wild animal, asking for its confidence.
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
She unlocked the front doors and led the way upstairs, into the studio. Lights weren’t necessary; the huge windows let in the morning sun and the gallery was lit by nature. She went to put her things down on her desk and the man walked slowly into the room, his eyes darting to each canvas in turn. Julia let him make his way around the gallery in his own time. Normally, if she was in the gallery with a single client, she would walk with them, but now she stood back to watch silently as he made the circuit of the space. But she watched intently to see his reactions to the work; that was what fascinated her about art. It was the reason she loved what she did.
The man took a long time in front of the Meridien paintings, and even more with the Church series. Julia saw one hand open and close reflexively, as if he were trying to crack his knuckles. Those paintings definitely evoked a feeling of discomfort in most people; the art-school part of her mind approved of the attention the man was paying to what he saw.
Then he saw the signature painting, the one the show had been titled for, and he went to it as though drawn by a magnet. Julia waited a minute before moving to join him; somehow it felt like an intrusion.
“That’s you, isn’t it? In the foreground.” He looked down at her as though startled to remember her presence. He gave a short nod.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Wait here.” Julia walked through the studio, her heels clicking on the clean polished wood floors, and when she returned carrying the three smaller canvases he was still in the same spot. Silently she set them on the floor, one at a time, leaning against the wall under New Orleans. She heard his intake of breath, but didn’t look up at him. It felt wrong to look at his first reaction to those paintings. She thought she understood, now, why Marie hadn’t let her show them. “You see how I could tell. I didn’t realize you were the same figure in this painting, but now that I look at them together, it’s obvious.”
“Christ.” She dared a glance at him then; he was staring at the paintings and she wouldn’t have thought his gaze could become any more intense, but it was. It almost took her breath away. She stepped back and returned to her desk, giving him time and space to look at the artwork.
Logan looked at each of the three canvases the woman had placed in front of him. Jesus christ almighty. They were scenes from his life, he knew that. The first was from the Mansion; it looked like she’d done the sketch in the library. At first glance, it seemed like a simple portrait, himself near one of the windows, looking out. It seemed like an ordinary enough moment, but there was something uneasy about the pose, something about the way she’d drawn him with one hand raised toward the curtain, that made the figure look uncomfortable. Then he realized. It was the day he’d left—no, the day before, after the argument they’d had, when he’d finally gone back to look for her. She’d been gone, and the book lying on the window seat in the picture, he knew what that was. Only there was no way she could have known about this moment, unless she’d been hiding somewhere in the library after all?
It was when he looked at the next painting that he finally understood. He’d half-forgotten about her having the same nightmares he did, and she’d touched him again that night. The whole idea of her knowing what was in his head had been too disquieting for him to consider at the time; he certainly hadn’t known her absorbed memories were as specific or far-reaching as this painting proved. It was from Canada. Blinding white, with slashes of red crossing the lone figure at its center, it was almost abstract in its simplicity, and yet it radiated anger and desolation. It was one of the earliest moments he could remember, waking up in the snow, alone, naked, with no idea of who or what he was, only fear and pain and horror at what had been done to him. She’d painted it exactly as he would have, if he’d had the ability or the desire.
But the third—his gaze kept returning to it in wonder. This one she must have made up. It seemed idealized, a version of himself he didn’t know. It was an outdoor scene, a field somewhere with a mountain rising in the background, and the way she’d painted him, leaning up against a tree, made him look younger, less guarded than he ever remembered being. He didn’t know why his heart was thudding so painfully until it suddenly burst over him.
She hadn’t made it up. This was a memory too, an older one than he thought he’d ever have again. It was barely there at all, just the faintest ghost of remembrance, but he’d been there, wherever it was. He could almost smell the breeze, almost hear something in the distance, a sound he knew—
Church bells. He got a flash of the church, tiny and ancient, tucked in a natural niche under the mountain. And that was all.
He turned to the woman who’d let him in; she had gone back to stand behind her desk. “Is she—does she work here?” She shook her head, but answered the question he hadn’t asked.
“She lives in Westchester.” He nodded and Julia knew he’d know the address. “Would you like to—I could call her.”
He shook his head. “That’s all right.” He started toward the exit, then paused. “Thanks. For letting me see the pictures.” Julia nodded and the man left. Her hand went to the phone, then drew back. She didn’t understand exactly, but she didn’t want to overstep her bounds. She was sure she’d hear from Marie in due course. In the meantime, she had a full day of appointments and work to do before the gallery opened, and she focused her attention on that.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to all who are sticking with this. We will get back to the Mansion soon enough, but first, there was something everyone wanted to know about some of those paintings...